The Gentleman Caller
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Post Bombshells, a mysterious old man comes to visit House at the hospital.
1. Chapter 1

**Here's a post-Bombshells fic about House's biological father coming to visit him. No Dominika in this one because she RUINS EVERYTHING. I think 2-parts should do the trick here. Hope you enjoy! - atd**

Cuddy was on her way to her office when she saw a tall elderly man—tall and distinguished looking—wandering the halls looking a bit lost.

She stopped.

"Can I help you?" she said.

The man bent toward her. He was elegantly dressed, in a wool overcoat and cashmere scarf. He had a handsome, lined, intelligent face, with these immensely piercing blue eyes. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn't put her finger on what.

"I'm looking for the office of Dr. Gregory House?" the man said.

She gave him a skeptical look.

"Is he expecting you?"

"No. But it's rather urgent that I speak to him."

"Dr. House only accepts new patients by referral," she said.

"I'm not a patient."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes.

"Is this a. . .sales call?" she said. The man didn't look anything like a salesman—more like an antique dealer or a college professor.

"No, actually it's a personal matter."

Cuddy frowned. (House had _personal matters_? Involving this elegant gentleman, no less?)

"What kind of personal matter?"

"It's terribly rude, I realize," the man said. "But I'm not at liberty to say."

Cuddy bit her lip.

"House really doesn't like intrusions," she said, finally.

He gave a light smile.

"You seem to know him quite well."

"Yes, well, he's worked for me for 10 years and, until recently, we, uh . . .dated."

"He clearly is a man of exquisite taste," the man said, his eyes twinkling. He had to be 80 years old and yet Cuddy felt the strength of his magnetism. He must've been an absolute heartbreaker in his day.

"I'm Clifford West by the way," the man said, thrusting out his hand.

"Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine," she replied, shaking it. His familiarity, her sense of déjà vu upon meeting him, was bordering on eerie.

"It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said.

Cuddy couldn't remember the last time she'd encountered a man with such courtly manners. She succumbed to it.

"Dr. House's office is one floor up, to the left," she said. "But the odds of him actually agreeing to meet with you are slim."

"Thank you, Dr. Cuddy. I'll take my chances."

And, with a tiny bow, he continued on toward the elevator.

######

House was alone in his office, pretending to read a file but mostly zoning out, when Clifford West materialized in his doorway.

"Dr. House?" he said.

House looked up.

"I only take patients by referral," he said, going back to fake working.

"I'm not a patient. I was wondering if I might trouble you for a moment of your time."

House folded his arms. The guy looked vaguely, but uncannily familiar.

"Do I know you?" he said, peering at him.

"Not yet. But I hope to rectify that fact. My name is Clifford West."

"Well Cliffie, whatever magical elixir you're selling, whatever religious cult you want to convert me to, whatever pyramid scheme you think I need to immediately invest in, I'm not interested."

Clifford laughed, amused.

"It's nothing like that. I'm the Dean of Humanities at Briar University."

"Just as I suspected. We have nothing in common: You're the dean of humanities and I hate humanity. Go find somebody else to bother. Scram."

"But I have a matter of some urgency to discuss with you."

House rolled his eyes a bit.

"They all do," he said, under his breath.

"The thing is, well there's no acceptable way to say this, so I'll just blurt it out: I'm your father."

With that, House's mouth dropped open. He stared at this strange man, incredulously.

"My father is dead," he said finally, tersely.

"John House wasn't your biological father and we both know that," Clifford said.

House suddenly felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

"So may I come in for a moment now?" Clifford said.

House kept staring at him, dumbfounded. He nodded, silently.

"Close the door," he managed to choke out.

The thing was, there really wasn't any question at this point. The man looked familiar because House was essentially looking in a mirror, at himself, 30 years from now. And yet, while his intellectual brain processed the information to be true—emotionally, he wasn't quite ready to believe.

"Explain yourself," he said.

"I met your mother at a poetry reading 53 years ago," Clifford said.

"That's already bullshit. My mother never went to a poetry reading in her life."

"Of course she did. Blythe went to many poetry readings—she even wrote a little poetry herself. There's probably lots you don't know about your mother."

"So enlighten me."

"Your mother was a dreamer, a romantic, a gazer at the stars. But she lacked direction in her life—or structure. Your father provided that. So she suppressed some of her more. . . bohemian tendencies and settled into the life of a military wife. But she still had an active, keen mind. Hence the poetry."

House folded his arms defensively, but said nothing.

"Your mother was a beautiful woman then, as I'm sure she still is."

"She is," House said, swallowing a bit.

"I was drawn to her. Any man would have been—she was so young, so vibrant, so full of optimism. I made up an excuse to talk to her. We began having coffee after the readings. We went to foreign films together, art openings, readings at communist book stores."

"_Communist _book stores?"

"She wasn't a communist. She was just intellectually. . .curious."

House had to laugh. The idea that Mr. Red-White-and-Blue John House had a wife who was secretly attending communist propaganda sessions was almost too good to be true.

"As I said, I was taken with her, right away," Clifford was saying. "But the thing is, I was married, myself. To a woman that I, too, had married out of a sense of duty. Joan was pregnant, you see. By the time I met your mother, I already had two little ones at home."

"You're not a particularly heroic figure in this story," House said, edgily. "You get that, don't you?"

"We were in love, Greg—may I call you Greg?"

"No."

Clifford West looked up, genuinely surprised.

"Dr. House then?"

"Whatever. Call me whatever you want," House grumbled.

"I loved your mother deeply, Greg, and yes, it turned into a brief and passionate affair. But it was short lived. We both had lives to get back to, so we parted and each promised to stay away. It was easier for me, once I get the job at Briar College, hundreds of miles away. I tried to contact your mother a few years later, but you had already left St. Louis at that point. I think you had moved to Delaware?"

"Newark . . .then San Antonio, then Ft. Lauderdale, then a year in Okinawa, Japan, then Michigan, then Denver, then Richmond. . ." House recited, by rote.

"That's a lot of moving around for one young man,"

"Yeah, I'm a real fucking hardship case," House said. Then he added impatiently: "So what'd you do when you found out she was pregnant with your kid?"

"I didn't," Clifford said, sadly. "I mean, not until years later. I saw an article about a promising young medical mind. It was like I was staring back at my own face from when I was 21 years old. And then I saw your name, Gregory House. And I just . . .knew."

House folded his arms.

"So it took you 30 years to muster up the courage to come visit me? Really ballsy move, Cliff."

"No. I tracked down your mother right away—in the article it said they were living in Virginia—and demanded that she tell me the truth. She denied it at first, but there was really no point. You'd have to be blind not to see it. . .She finally admitted that you were my son, but she begged me not to come forward. I was torn. I wanted to meet you, to know you, more than I can possibly say. On the other hand, my wife and I built a wonderful life together. We had four children—all adults now, of course, well over 40—and old secrets can be disruptive. Blythe told me that John House isn't the kind of man who accepts betrayal—on any level. So for everyone's sake, I stayed mum."

House kept trying to process all of this but it was beginning to feel like an out of body experience.

"Four kids?" he said. "I have four siblings?"

"Yes." Clifford reached for his wallet and pulled out a photo—at least 20 years old, judging by the out of fashion clothing and Clifford's full head of dark hair. A smiling family: Clifford and a woman, presumably his wife, sitting down, surrounded by their grown children and various spouses and offspring. All the clothing matched, as though they had been styled in advance. "That's my wife Joan," he said. "And that's Cliff Jr.—he's owns an architecture firm in Manhattan. His wife is Beth and that's little Amanda, who's a senior at Brown now." He shook his head, disbelievingly. "And that's my daughter Sarah—she's a professor like me. She teaches comparative literature at Duke. That's Jordana: She's an astrophysicist at the Space Telescope Institute. And that one. That's my great disappointment, Brian. He's the CEO of a bank. _And_ a Republican." He chuckled.

House stared the photo, at all their smiling, attractive faces. They were every inch the wealthy, well-fed, well-educated American family.

"I bet your kids had everything they wanted, huh?" House said, bitterly. "Tennis camp, cello lessons, a library stuffed with books, European vacations. The whole bit, huh?"

Clifford hastily put the photo away. "Yes," he admitted. "Something like that. Why? It wasn't like that for you?"

"Let's just say my father valued discipline over more…intellectual pursuits."

"I'm sorry Greg," Clifford said.

"Yeah well. The life you get is the life you get, huh?"

"But your career… your brilliance. Your reputation proceeds you, Greg. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been following your career with a touch of long-distance pride."

"Oh yeah, I'm every father's dream son."

"To me, you were the son that got away. Just like Blythe was the love of my life who got away. Not that I would trade my life, my family, for anyone's. But we all have regrets, Greg. You and Blythe—you're mine."

"Does my mother know you're here?"

"No she does not. And I hope it can stay that way."

"Then what are you doing here? Why now? My father died two years ago."

"I know. I was sorry to hear about that."

"I wasn't."

Clifford looked at him, skeptically.

"I'm here because I'm. . .sick."

"Oh for fuck's sake. You want me to treat you," House said, disgusted.

"No! No! Nothing like that. I'm dying. Stage four pancreatic cancer. I have months to live. There's nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it. I wanted to see you, spend some time with you."

"And do what? Toss a football around? Go to the park together? In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a cripple."

Clifford frowned.

"I noticed the cane. . .how did it happen?"

"I was playing baseball and scanning the crowd for my real father and a line drive hit me in the leg."

"You don't have to tell me. . ." Clifford said.

"Oh, that's a relief."

Clifford sighed a bit, looked around the office.

"So what happens in there?" he said, pointing toward the DDx room. "Is that where you and your team brainstorm?"

"No," House said, shaking his head. "We're not doing this. I'm not giving you a tour of the hospital. I'm not going to be your new best friend."

"I feel like you have a lot of anger, Greg."

"You don't miss much, do you?"

"I'm very sorry about that. I can't help but to wonder if the disorienting feeling that you grew up with the wrong father contributed to it."

"If you think I would've fit in better with your grinning bunch of Stepford children, you're kidding yourself."

Clifford nodded. At Briar, he was used to dealing with insolent young men who pretended not to care about anything or anyone. House struck him as an older, more jaded, more brilliant version of that model.

"I met your lovely Dean of Medicine," he said, changing the subject. "She said you two used to date?"

"Is that what she called it?" House said, scowling.

"What would you call it?"

"We were practically living together, until she dumped my sorry ass."

"I'm sorry. Did this happen recently?"

"Three months, 23 days, and"—he looked at his watch—"17 hours ago. Not that I'm counting."

"I'm sorry. That must be hard."

"Hey, at least it's not Stage 4 pancreatic cancer!"

Clifford was momentarily taken aback. Then he recovered.

"You think if you're rude to me, it'll drive me away?"

"Not so much think as hope."

"We don't have to do this. A relationship with you is something I wish for, very deeply. But we don't have to do this."

"What's the point?" House said. "You'll be gone in six months anyway."

"What's the point of doing anything? We're all dying, after all."

"Finally, you're making some sense!"

Clifford studied him for a moment, in the same penetrating, almost disconcerting way that House sometimes studied people.

"You're depressed," he said. "It's understandable. A breakup like that can be difficult. Especially if you thought she was the one."

"She _is_ the one," House muttered. "Not past tense."

"Let me buy you a drink."

"Nope."

"Tomorrow then."

"Sorry, busy."

Clifford nodded, sadly.

"Okay, look. I'm staying at the Princeton Hilton. I'll be here for 10 days. And then I go back to Portland. I told Joan I was taking part in some medical trials here."

"Filling her with false hope. Classy move, Cliff!"

Clifford took out a pen and wrote down a phone number.

"This is how you can reach me. I really hope you'll give me a call."

He stood up.

"Hold on a second," House said, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a swab. "Say ahhhh."

"Is that really necessary?" Clifford said. And as he spoke, House reached into his mouth and procured the sample.

"I'm skeptical by nature," he said, dropping the swab into a sample jar.

"And when the DNA proves what we both already know? That I am your father?"

"I make no promises, Darth Vader. I'm not really the 'bonding over beers with Dad' type."

"Then we can do whatever you want. Play chess. Watch a movie. Sit on a park bench. I just want to get to know my son."

"I'm sure Cliff Jr. is all broken up about your impending death—go find him," House said. "Now get out of my office."

Clifford nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I understand. Ten days. And then I'm gone. For good."

"Don't be melodramatic. It's not like you're dying or anything. Oh…wait."

"Goodbye, Greg."

"See ya, Dad!"

The old man left House's office and walked slowly down the hall.

House put his head in his hands and stayed that way for a long time.

Then he grabbed the DNA sample and made his way down to the lab.

#####

House was just about to look at the two samples under the microscope when Cuddy walked in.

"What are you doing here?"

He backed up against the microscope—in an exaggerated show of hiding it.

"I'm masturbating to hardcore pornography," he said. "Either that or I'm looking at cells under a microscope."

"You never do your own lab work," Cuddy said, skeptically.

"All of my young fresh fellows were otherwise occupied," House said.

"I don't believe you. Let me see what you've got there."

"It's actually none of your business."

Cuddy gave a throaty laugh.

"Everything that happens in this hospital is my business."

"Not this. It's, uh, personal."

Cuddy furrowed her brow.

"Does this have anything to do with that gentleman who came to see you earlier?"

And then, like an anvil, it hit her: That vague sense of déjà vu that she couldn't shake.

"That man is your biological father," she said.

(One night, over a bottle of chianti, he had told her the truth about his father. It had turned into an all-night discussion, the longest they'd ever had about his life and childhood. When they got into bed, she had climbed on top of him. "Thank you for sharing that with me," she had whispered.)

"He's some guy who saw my picture in a magazine and noticed a resemblance. He probably just wants my money."

"Then why are you testing his DNA?"

"An abundance of caution."

"I noticed you haven't looked at the results," she egged on.

"On waiting for you to leave."

"If he's just some imposter, who cares if I'm here or not?"

House glared at her a bit, then took a barely noticeable inhale and looked at the samples.

He tried to remain stony faced.

"Not my dad," he said.

"You're lying."

"I am not."

"House, I know you. You may not have an official tell but it's written all over your face."

He looked at her, clenched his jaw a bit.

"So what if he is my father? What's it to you?"

"House, _is _he your father?"

"I repeat: What's it to you?"

She got a little excited, despite herself.

"That's…incredible! He seemed so nice. And interesting. Is he an academic of some sort? What are you going to do? Are you seeing him tonight?"

He ignored her so she continued to babble.

"I just. . .I just can't believe it," she said. "How do you feel? You must be so excited!"

House folded his arms.

"If I had a girlfriend, I might tell _her_ how I feel. I might open up to her about all of my emotions right now. But I don't have a girlfriend. I have a nosy boss who I wish would _leave me the fuck alone_."

She was startled, a bit, by the coldness in his voice.

"Okay, I'm going," she said, backing out of the lab. "But you are going to see him again. _Right?_"

When he didn't reply, she finally relented.

"Look, I know you hate me right now. But I'm happy for you. Truly."

He turned away from her and looked back down at the sample

######

That night, around 10 pm, there was a knock at House's door. He peered through the peep hole.

Wilson.

"You're not married so your wife couldn't have kicked you out," he said, letting him in.

"I spoke to Cuddy," Wilson said.

"And _she_ kicked you out?"

"She told me about your father."

"Christ, she's obsessed."

"House, this is huge. So it was really him?"

House nodded slowly, led Wilson to his laptop, where he had Clifford West's Wikipedia page open. Two best sellers (_Myth and Mythologies _and _The Examined Life_), an interview on The Charlie Rose show (that House had already watched twice), and a recipient of the National Humanities Medal in 1992.

"Wow," Wilson said. "Impressive guy." Then he peered at the picture of Clifford on the site. "He's like an artist's rendering of what you're going to look like in 30 years."

"And yet ironically, _he_ doesn't need a cane."

"So…where is he now?"

"At the Princeton Hilton Hotel," House said.

"And when do you see him next?"

"I don't."

Wilson started.

"What do you mean you don't?"

"I mean…I don't. I'm 51-years-old. I have no interest in getting to know this complete stranger. He means nothing to me."

"House, he's your father, your flesh and blood. If nothing else, I would think your intellectual curiosity would compel you to get to know him better."

"I already have him all figured out. Big Professor on Campus, with his books and his awards and his tweed jackets that he probably has custom made at a clothier in some perfectly quaint village in England. I imagine he cheated on his long-suffering wife a lot, each time elevating his animalistic gruntings to the stuff of Shakespearean sonnets. There's probably 10 other bastard sons and daughters just like me scattered around the country."

"You really believe all that?" said, furrowing his brow.

House shrugged.

"It's possible."

"Then why is he here? Why did he come all the way to Princeton to see you."

"He's old," House said, declining to mention Clifford's terminal illness. "He's feeling guilty about all the poor wretched Wests who didn't get the benefit of his excellent fathering skills."

"So he has kids?"

"Four overachieving siblings. There's Cliff Jr, the big shot architect. Sarah, the literature professor at Duke. Jordana, the astrophysicist and Brian, the bank CEO and Republican—Clifford's alleged shame, nudge-nudge, wink-wink."

Wilson stared at House, suddenly feeling a profound sense of sadness. A family of overachievers and intellectuals. The kind of family House should have grown up in; the kind of family he could've thrived in. (He was also struck by the fact that, despite his brief encounter with Clifford West, House had managed to memorize the names of all of his children.)

"Wow. You have siblings," he said.

"They don't know about me," House said. "Probably wouldn't take too kindly to dear old dad's bastard son."

"And what does your mom say?"

"She doesn't know he came to see me," House said, looking down.

"Are you going to tell her?"

"Hell no! I'm not going to rock the world of a 77 year old woman for no reason."

Wilson nodded.

"I guess there's no right answer here. So how long is Clifford in town?"

"10 days. Then he turns back into a pumpkin."

"That'll give you plenty of time to get to know him."

"You're assuming I want to spend any time with him at all."

"House, you should. He came all this way to see you."

"I'm still deciding."

Wilson nodded. "Okay, fair enough. But don't waste too much time. Regret is the single worst word in the English language."

"I'd go with genocide myself. But regret's a bad one, too."

Wilson gave a slightly game smile.

"Speaking of regret. . ."

"Here we go," House said, rolling his eyes.

"How are things with Cuddy?"

"Regret doesn't really apply in this case. Do I regret that she dumped me? Yes, I regret it. I regret it a lot. I also can't do a damn thing about it."

"She said you were mean to her."

"Poor baby."

"You should give her a break."

"Why? She didn't give me one."

"Because she cares for you. That's why she called me. She was worried that you might be upset, that you needed a friend."

"If she really cared about me, she'd come over and give me a blowjob."

"Don't be crude, House. Talking about Cuddy that way doesn't fly anymore."

"You obviously severely underestimate the healing power of a Lisa Cuddy blowjob."

Wilson shook his head.

"I'm leaving. But I leave you with this advice. Call the old man tomorrow. Make a date to see him, talk to him, pick his brain. You might actually learn something about yourself in the process."

"Thank you, Maury Povich."

Wilson laughed.

"Goodnight, House."

"Goodnight, Wilson."

He led his friend to the door. After he was gone, he pulled out his tablet. He was already on page 455 of _Myth and Mythologies_.

######


	2. Chapter 2

Clifford West sat in at a corner table at the Patterson Coffee Shop, looking slightly out of time and place in his tweed jacket, with his wool fedora hanging from a nearby coat rack, reading the _New York Times_ business section, and sipping on a mug of coffee. He shifted in his seat nervously, looked at his watch.

"Are you ready to order?" the waitress said to him, slightly impatiently.

"Not just yet, thank you, I'm waiting on a friend," he said politely. And then he looked up: "Ahh, here she is now."

Lisa Cuddy strode to the table—windblown, beautiful, important-looking.

"Sorry I'm late," she breathed.

"Not at all, dear. I was early."

He stood when she got to the table—and even took her coat and hung it on the rack next to his hat.

"I'm so glad you agreed to meet with me," he said.

"I have to admit I was …curious," Cuddy said, gesturing to the waitress that she wanted a cup of coffee, too.

"How much has Greg told you about me?" Clifford said, cautiously.

"Well, I know that you're his biological father," Cuddy said.

"Oh good," Clifford sighed. "Then we can be honest with each other."

"Please."

"I told Greg I'd be in town for 10 days and then I had to get back to Portland. Today is day 9 and he still hasn't contacted me. I've essentially been sitting by the phone, waiting for his call—like a smitten teenage girl waiting on a suitor. And that phone call hasn't come."

"I'm . . .sorry."

"I'm very upset about it. But I don't know what to do. Intuitively I feel like Greg has to come to me on his own."

She smiled knowingly.

"Good intuition."

"So I'm at a bit of a loss."

"Again, I'm very sorry but I'm not quite sure what you think I can do to help."

He peered at her, with those same penetrating, impossible-to-look-away-from eyes as his son.

"Talk to him for me. Get him to change his mind."

Cuddy looked down at the table.

"House is barely talking to me right now," she said. "He's _very _angry with me."

"I know," Clifford said. "He told me you dumped his 'sorry ass'—as he so colorfully put it. He also told me that you were the love of his life."

"He said that?" Cuddy said, flushing a bit.

"Of course," Clifford said. "So I have a suspicion you still have some influence over him."

"I guess it's possible. . ."

"Then you'll try to talk to him? Convince him to come see me?"

"I'll try. I make no promises. Sometimes House just walks away from me, mid-sentence. And those are the days he's feeling polite."

"I have no one else to turn to," Clifford said.

"I'll do my best," she said.

"I have one more favor to ask you, although I've already asked too much: I would prefer it if you didn't mention that we met for coffee," Clifford said. "I'd rather he thought this came from you, not me."

"Well, to be honest, I _do_ think he should meet with you. Not knowing his real father has a been a great source of frustration and disappointment in his life. So, in a way, it would be coming from me."

Clifford smiled.

"Wonderful. I'm so pleased." Then, after hesitating a moment, he said: "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Go ahead"

"Is he happy? I mean…I know he's not happy now. He's depressed that you left him. But in general: Is he a happy man?"

Cuddy sighed a bit, weighed her words:

"I feel like 'happy' is too simple a word to apply to somebody as complicated as House," she said. "I guess, if I had to categorize him, happy or sad, he's closer to sad, but there's a playfulness there, too, a sense of mischief. It's part of what drew me to him."

Clifford nodded, deeply interested. "Tell me more," he said.

"House is the most fully _present _person I've ever met. His intellect is staggering, of course. But it's not just that. He sees things. His insights, the tiny things he picks up on—it's extraordinary. And while he might not always be the happiest guy, he has passion in his life—for medicine, for ideas, for solving puzzles."

Clifford gave a half-smile.

"I believe he has passion in his life for other things as well," he said, knowingly.

Cuddy chuckled.

"I suppose," she admitted. Then, still in a bit of House-related reverie, she said: "It's intimidating, exhilarating, and, frankly, a little exhausting to be around him."

"I can imagine," Clifford said.

Cuddy snapped out of it.

"But yeah, it's lonely being House, too, you know? The world is constantly disappointing him. And then, of course, there's the physical pain."

"From his leg? Does it still hurt? May I ask what happened there?"

"He had an infarction. Amputation would've been the safest option. He refused. Some medical decisions were made on his behalf that, well, didn't turn out as well as we might've hoped."

"And that's why he takes the pills? I saw him pop two in my presence."

"Yes, that's Vicodin." Cuddy gulped a bit, feeling guilty and sad, as she always did when House's addiction was discussed. "He had been sober for over two years. But recently…"

"Since the breakup," Clifford offered.

"Yeah. I had a health scare that, well. . ." she blinked back a tear. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"I'm sorry," Clifford said, aghast. "I didn't mean to upset you."

She smiled—but her eyes were still wet.

"It's okay. It's not your fault. House isn't the only one who's sad about our breakup."

"It's obvious that you still love him."

"I do…"

"So why. . .?" He caught himself. "I'm sorry. I'm meddling. It's none of my business."

"No, it's okay. He's your son, right? So it's at least _partly_ your business. . . The thing is, I have a three-year-old daughter and this insanely demanding job—I need a boyfriend who requires a little less maintenance. House can never be counted on to do the right thing, to be there for me when I need him the most."

"But he's worth it, isn't he?"

Cuddy laughed.

"You're as persistent as he is."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Most of the time. Most of the time he's worth it," she admitted. "But when House fails, he fails spectacularly."

"I know I'm stepping way out of line here. But I wish you could find some way back to each other," Clifford said. "I so want him to be happy."

"Sometimes I wish that, too," Cuddy admitted.

Then she glanced at her watch. "Oh, shit. I need to go. I have a meeting with some donors in 20 minutes."

She reached into her wallet to pull out some bills.

"Don't be ridiculous. Needless to say, this is on me," he said. "I truly appreciate you taking the time to meet me."

"I only wish we had more time."

"But you'll do that thing? The thing we discussed?"

"Of course," she said. "But don't get your hopes up. He really doesn't listen to me anymore."

"I think he listens to you more than you know," Clifford said.

"Well good luck to both of us then," she said.

#####

Later that day, she found House leaning over the balcony that overlooked the hospital.

"Do you really think it's wise to stand next to me on balconies right now?" he cracked.

"What, you're going to throw me over?" she said.

"I promise to make it look like an accident."

Unconsciously, she took a step back.

He side-eyed her. "Don't worry you're safe. I wouldn't want to leave Rachel an orphan."

She stepped back toward him.

"Speaking of parenting. . ."

"Were we?"

She shrugged, gave a guilty smile.

"I saw an opening. . ."

"What's on your mind, Cuddy? As if I can't guess."

"Have you seen Clifford West yet?" (Pretending she didn't know the truth gave Clifford better deniability).

"We had dinner last night, as a matter of fact," House said.

She gaped at him.

"You're lying!"

He furrowed his brow: "How do you know?"

"I just. . . I can tell!"

"You weren't this good at sussing out my lies when we were dating," he said.

"So you think," she said, happy to leave him second guessing.

He smiled at her, in a touché kind of way.

"I'm not going to indulge the old man," he said. "I have no interest in him. We have nothing in common."

"Oh right. Nothing in common. Except that he's your father."

"Keep your voice down. I'm not sure all the patients in the clinic heard you."

"House, he's leaving tomorrow, right?" Then she remembered that she wasn't supposed to know that. "Uh, at least that's what Wilson told me. If you don't go see him, you'll have regret. And regret is the worst feeling in the world."

"Why is everyone so down on regret?" House said. "As feelings go, I'd say boiling pustules on your face probably feel worse."

"House, you can't push away everyone who loves you."

"Not if they push me away first," he said, looking at her.

"House. . ." She put her hand on his arm.

"I gotta go," he said, shaking her off. "I'm done with this conversation."

"Just go visit him," she called after him. "Just one visit. For me."

He snickered.

"And maybe you can go fuck yourself." Then he added sweetly: "For me."

She inhaled, rolled her eyes, and watched him limp away.

#####

But of course he did listen to her, because he almost always did, agreeing to meet Clifford in the hotel bar that night for drinks.

And Clifford was thrilled beyond all measure, but he intuitively played it cool, shaking his son's hand and saying, "I'm so glad you found the time."

They ordered drinks—scotch, neat, for both of them—and talked. And talked. And talked some more.

They discussed Clifford's books and he was amazed, touched, and stunned that House had read and comprehended them so thoroughly.

"You have a better understanding of these subjects than my third-year graduate students," Clifford said. "And this is their life's vocation."

House shrugged. "It's not that complicated," he said.

They discussed Clifford's two PhDs.

"Why don't you call yourself Dr. West?" House asked.

"Go to any university and find me the professors who call themselves 'Dr.'—and trust me, those are the assholes to be avoided at all costs," Clifford said. "You're the only real doctor at this table."

They discussed House's patients and his strategies for solving a case. Unlike other people who paid mere lip service to being interested in House's methods, Clifford was genuinely fascinated. He asked the right questions, listened intently, and even got House to describe the cases he'd solved with something resembling enthusiasm.

They discussed their mutual love of jazz, Elmore Leonard novels, and Monty Python, their mutual disdain for religion and small talk and people who smiled too much.

"I love those people where you can actually read the 'fuck you' in their smile," Clifford said.

"They always seem to have bigger teeth," House noted.

And they both laughed.

Finally, cautiously, House said: "Do you have any other, uh, illegitimate children?"

"No," Clifford said. "Of course not. I only cheated on Joan once, with your mother."

House studied him.

"But there must've been temptation: Comely co-eds batting their eyelashes—and other things—at you."

"Of course," Clifford laughed. "Every year it seems the skirts get shorter and the blouses get lower cut. But. . .I'm loyal. To a fault sometimes. Your mother was the only woman I ever cheated with. In that case, I succumbed to temptation because the temptation was simply too strong."

House nodded, believing him.

"Your mother changed didn't she?" Clifford said. "She lost some of her exuberance for life?"

"My father had a way of sucking the exuberance out of most things. He thought being called a conformist was a compliment."

"He didn't get to you," Clifford said, admiringly. "You're anything but a conformist."

House gave a half-shrug.

"I raged against him. I spent my entire adult life raging against him."

"And probably, if I had raised you, you'd have raged against me too."

"I'd be like Brian. A corporate CEO and a Republican."

"And gay, too, as far as I can tell. Not that he's told me—or his wife."

They laughed again, but there was a twinge of sorrow in their merriment. It was obvious that House and Clifford were kindred spirits—there would have been nothing for House to rage against.

They ordered more drinks and talked some more—about dark matter, about video games ("please explain the fascination," Clifford said), about the perfection of a Montecristo Habana cigar.

Clifford didn't pry too much about Cuddy but he did ask if there was any chance of a reconciliation.

"Highly doubtful," House said. "She's pretty resolute with her decisions. And besides, I've been such an asshole to her since the breakup, she probably wants nothing to do with me."

"Here's a novel thought: Don't be an asshole."

"I can't," House admitted. "It hurts too much."

Just then, the lights flickered on and the bartender said: "Sorry fellas. We're closing up."

It was 2 a.m.

So the father and son blinked at each other and stepped out of the bar, into the hotel lobby.

"I guess this is it," Clifford said.

"I guess so," House said.

"I've enjoyed tonight more than I can say," Clifford said.

"Me too," House said. Then, quickly: "Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow?"

"I rented a car, so I guess that's not necessary."

House nodded.

"Oh yeah. Of course. Right."

"I don't know how well I'll be able to stay in touch," Clifford admitted. "I never wanted to sneak around behind my family's back. I wanted to come to Princeton, see you as much as I possibly could in these 10 days and then walk away with no regrets."

House's mouth formed a tiny o.

"I should've come to see you sooner. I'm an idiot."

"I'm glad you came to see me at all."

House shuffled his feet.

"It's late. You have a long day tomorrow. You should probably get some sleep."

He went to shake Clifford's hand, but the old man caught him in an embrace and House let him.

When they parted, Clifford said: "I know this is meaningless coming from me, and maybe even presumptuous: But I'm proud of the man you've become, Greg. Very proud indeed."

House swallowed hard.

"Thanks," he said. As Clifford began to walk away, he shouted after him: "Wait! Your medical records. Can you have the hospital send them to me, including all your treatment and all your scans?"

"I don't see any point, Greg. The diagnosis is terminal."

"I'd like to see them all the same, if you don't mind."

Clifford smiled at him, gratefully: "Of course."

######

Several days later, House asked Wilson to join his team for a DDx.

"What do you see?" he said to the room.

"Advanced stage pancreatic cancer," Wilson said.

"What else?" House said, impatiently.

"What else?" Foreman said. "What else is there?"

"I mean, what else could it possibly be?"

"Do you know the answer to this and it's some sort of test?" Chase said, squinting at the scan.

"No, I'm asking you to think beyond the obvious."

"I suppose it could be some other kind of cancer—lymphoma,"

Foreman said.

"No, not that," House said, as Wilson gave him a look. (Lymphoma was as fatal as pancreatic cancer.)

"I once saw a very bad case of auto immune pancreatitis that resembled that," Chase said.

House nodded, vigorously, wrote that down on the board.

"Good! Finally we're getting someplace. What else?"

"An allergic reaction?" Thirteen said. "To antibiotics, like what Dr. Cuddy had."

"Right. Possible," House said, writing it down, too.

"No, it's not possible," Wilson said, scowling at him. "Whose scan is that?"

"Just a patient," House said, all worked up. He clapped his hands. "What else!"

"I need a moment with Dr. House alone," Wilson said to the team.

They all looked at Wilson, then looked back at House.

"Just ignore him," House said. "What about panniculitis?"

"House, it's not panniculitis," Wilson said. Then a bit more forcefully to the room: "Leave us."

"I have a thing I need to do…" Chase mumbled, getting up.

"Yeah, I need to help him with that thing," Foreman said.

"I have my period," Thirteen said.

And they all scrambled out.

Wilson folded his arms, stared at House.

"Whose scan is that?"

"I told you. Just a patient."

But Wilson was walking toward the lightboard where the scan was mounted.

"Clifford Bartholomew West, born August 14,1929," he read. Then he turned to House. "Oh, House, I'm so sorry."

House shoved his hands in his pockets.

"There's a chance that. . ."

"There's no chance," Wilson said.

House had slumped into a chair and Wilson sat down next to him. "When was this scan taken?" he asked.

"About a month ago," House said.

"So he doesn't have. . .much time."

"No," House admitted, bowing his head.

Wilson put a comforting hand on House's shoulder, but he stiffened.

"I'm fine," he said.

Wilson nodded.

"Okay," he said gently. "You're fine."

######

House scanned the _Oregonian_ obituaries every day, relieved each time to not see his father's name. And then, three months later, there it was.

_Clifford West, 82, survived by his loving wife Joan, his four children, and his seven grandchildren._

Four children.

The obituary was long and flattering, it cited all of Clifford's accomplishments and had adoring, highly anecdotal quotes from his colleagues and friends. _In lieu of flowers, donations can be sent to the American Civil Liberties Union_, the obit read.

House felt his mouth go dry when he read it and, for a second, actually feared that he might throw up. He briefly considered getting on a plane to go to Portland for the funeral. But how could he explain his presence? And what if someone in the family noticed the resemblance, put two and two together?

So he suffered, in silence—just sitting there for hours, not knowing what to do with his useless grief, his mountain of regret, his roiling feelings—telling no one.

Until Lisa Cuddy came marching into his office, looking pissed.

"Where the hell have you been?" she said, her hands on her hips.

House looked around his office in mock confusion.

"I caught that new teen vampire flick _Twilight_ at the Multiplex. Do you think I'm more of an Edward or a Jacob?" Then he scowled. "Where do you think I've been? I've been here in my office, genius."

"You were supposed to have been in the clinic more than an hour ago. It's not my job to track you down."

"Oops," House said.

"Oops? _Oops_? How bout get your ass down there—now?"

"I'm not in the mood," House said.

"That's not acceptable, House."

"I don't feel well," he said.

She glared at him.

"You look fine."

"I'm not. I'm sick."

"House, I've had enough of your games and your attitude. Enough is enough!"

"My father is dead!" he screamed at her.

The was a brief, sick silence.

"That's not funny," Cuddy said.

"I'm not joking," he said, throwing the paper at her. She looked down and read, put her hand to her mouth.

"Oh my God, House… I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say something?"

"To you?" he sneered.

"It says long battle with pancreatic cancer. Did you know?"

"Of course. That's why the old man came to see me. Settling his affairs before he died. Affairs in the literal sense in this case."

"Oh House, I'm so sorry."

"You said that already."

"Does Wilson know?"

"Not unless he scours the Oregon obituaries on a daily basis. Which is entirely possible. He's a pretty morbid guy."

"I'll go get him," she said.

"I don't need you to get anyone."

"House, you shouldn't be alone right now."

"Alone is my specialty."

"I'm just going to go see if he's around. . ."

"He's in surgery," House said, testily.

"Oh."

She slumped into the chair across from his desk. He eyed her, lethally.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sitting here with you. Is that alright?"

"No. It's not alright."

She sighed.

"House, I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine. An old man I barely knew dropped dead. During this very conversation I'm quite certain that several other old men I don't know have dropped dead. Such is life."

"This old man was your father."

"In biology only."

She peered at him skeptically.

"If it's not big deal and you're not upset, why did you blow off clinic duty?"

"Is that what you want?" he said, his voice rising. "You want me to do clinic duty?"

"No! House, I want you to admit that you're upset."

"What is it with you and Wilson, always wanting me to admit that I'm upset?"

"Because it's part of the process of grieving House. You let your feelings out, you lean on your friends, and you feel better."

"Maybe _you_ let your feelings out and you lean on _your_ friends and _you_ feel better. I deal with things my own way."

"Oh and that's been working out so well for you."

She regretted saying it almost immediately.

His eyes flashed.

"Are we done here?" he said.

She closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Do I have to clinic duty or can I be excused?"

She sighed, exasperated.

"Of course you're excused House. You can go home. But please call Wilson. And if you can't call Wilson, call me. You can come over, play with Rachel. I know she'd love to see you."

"Oh, such noblesse oblige," House said. "It's really heartwarming."

Cuddy stood up, shook her head angrily.

"There's not talking to you!" she said.

"Then here's a brilliant idea: Don't!"

######

He went home and, of course, began drinking immediately. Cuddy called him three times, but he didn't pick up.

At 8 o clock, there was a knock at the door: Wilson.

"Did Cuddy send you?" House said.

"Yes," Wilson admitted.

"Good. And now you can tell her you came. Go home."

He went to slam the door in Wilson's face, but Wilson stuck his foot in the doorway.

"Can I at least have a drink?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm fine. I don't need a babysitter."

"I don't want to babysit you. I just want a drink."

House gave a mirthless smile.

"Nice try."

"I'm worried about you. You don't seem fine. You seem like you're on the verge of a complete meltdown."

"Wilson, we've been friends for 10 years and I've never taken a swing at you. I'd rather not start now."

Wilson scratched his head.

"Okay, fine. But I'm a phone call away. I can be back here in 10 minutes, any time—even in the middle of the night."

"You are the Patron Saint of Bromance. Now go home and leave me alone."

Wilson reluctantly removed his foot from the door and shuffled away.

House took a swig from the bottle and went back to what he had being doing before—Googling Clifford West and his four children. He watched YouTube videos and read articles and scanned Facebook photos—smiling families and roughhousing brothers and graduations and European vacations (the family in front of the Eiffel Tower; then on the canals of Venice) and camping trips in shorts and hiking boots. The astrophysicist, Jordana, had given a Ted Talk called "Why Dark Matter Matters" and he watched it, fascinated—seeing vague, yet unmistakable echoes of himself.

The whole thing felt surreal: The life not lived. The road not traveled. House had spent his whole life with a father who hated him; in a family where he never felt he belonged. And here was this life—this other life, this better life, this life that for all intents and purposes should've been his.

He watched Clifford West's Charlie Rose interview for what had to be the fifteenth time, and sat there feeling restless and helpless and a little bit unhinged.

He took one final gulp of scotch—he had drained the bottle—got in his car and drove to the one place on earth that had ever felt like home.

#####

She came to the door hugging a silk robe over her nightgown.

"You said I could come over and play with Rachel," he slurred, leaning against the door frame because he could barely sustain his own weight.

"House, it's after midnight. Rachel's asleep. And you're drunk."

"Oh…" He looked genuinely consternated for a second. "Okay, I'll go."

She grabbed his arm.

"Oh no, you're not going anywhere. Come in."

She pulled him inside, dragged him to the couch.

"I'm making you coffee," she said, heading to the kitchen.

"I don't want coffee," he said, literally toppling over onto the couch. "I want to sleep here. Can I sleep here?" He smelled a throw pillow. "Everything here is so clean and fresh and nice."

She didn't actually mind him sleeping over, but trying to explain his presence to Rachel in the morning would be difficult.

She tried to pull him back to a sitting position, but he was dead weight. Finally, she was able to get him to sit up. She handed him the coffee.

"Are you okay?" she said.

"He was here 10 days," House said, holding the coffee but not drinking it. "10 days and I saw the man only once."

"House, the coffee is for drinking, not warming your hands."

He took a sip, then put the mug down.

"He told me he was proud of me," House said. "You know how many times John House told me he was proud of me?" He made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. "Zero. Zero times."

"House, I'm sorry."

She took his hand, which he raised to his lips.

She was so relieved to receive any sort of gesture of tenderness from him—it had been snipes and sarcasm for six months—she allowed herself to hug him, trying to ease his pain, absorb some of his grief.

Of course, he mistook her gesture for something else and immediately found her mouth, began kissing her, fondling her sloppily.

Even in his current state, there was something sexy about House to her, always would be. His drunken groping was actually turning her on (it probably didn't help that she hadn't slept with anyone in six months)—but this was obviously a very bad idea.

"House, no!" she said, getting up off the couch.

"But I need you," he said, fumbling under her nightgown, his hands moving from her legs to her ass to her waist.

She backed away.

"House, stop it!" she said, sharply enough to finally get his attention. He looked at the floor.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm going to spill out your coffee and get you some that's hot."

But when she got back to the couch, he was passed out, still wearing his coat and Nikes. She sighed, managed to yank off his sneakers (the coat was another story) and placed a throw blanket over his sleeping form.

Reflexively, she touched his face, kissed his forehead.

"Oh House?" she said, turning off the light. "What am I going to do with you?"

########

He woke up at 10 am, rubbing his eyes and looking around in a bit of a daze.

"Good morning," she said to him.

"Oh shit," he said.

"Nice to see you, too," she said.

"Oh shit," he repeated. "I was very, very, _very_ drunk last night." He grabbed his chin with two hands and cracked his neck in a way she never liked—but in this case, she forgave him.

"Yeah you were."

"I seem to recall making a very sloppy pass. I'm. . .I'm an idiot."

"I would've been insulted if you hadn't made a pass," she said, knowing it was partly true.

Then she studied him: "Feeling any better?" 

"My head hurts like hell," he said.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know. . .it's nice to wake up here with you," he said. "I miss us. And that's not me begging you to take me back. It's just the truth."

"I miss us, too," she said.

He looked around the room.

"Where's the Mini Cuddy?" he said.

"She went to school. She tried to wake you up by poking her fingers in your face, but you were dead to the world."

"That sucks," House said. "I wanted to see her."

"She made you this," Cuddy said, handing him a drawing. It was a house—red front door, green shutters on the windows—with several "Zs" coming out of the chimney. "It's a sleeping house, get it?"

House smiled. "She's an abstract expressionist," he said, approvingly.

"I'll tell her you liked it," Cuddy chuckled. She held her hand to take back the drawing, but he folded it, tucked it into his inside pocket.

"Up for some coffee now?" she said.

He nodded and made his way slowly to the kitchen table. She pulled a mug out of the cupboard, poured him the coffee. That was when he noticed an unopened letter on the table. It struck him for several reasons: One, it was typed, in an actual typewriter (he could tell by the raised letters). Two, the return address was printed, from Briar University in Portland, OR. Over the address, in blue ink it read: C West.

"What is this?" House said, accusingly.

Cuddy still hadn't noticed the letter. "Just some mail I picked up yesterday. I was so worried about you, I didn't have the chance to look through it."

"Cuddy, why did my late father send you a letter?"

She froze for a moment. "What?" she said, walking up to him and yanking the letter from his hands. Her mouth dropped open: "Oh my God."

"Why would my father send you a letter?" House repeated.

"We. . .uh. . .I wasn't going to tell you this but we met."

"When?"

"The same day you had drinks with him. He wanted me to use my feminine influence over you to convince you to meet him." She smiled, despite herself. "And I guess it worked."

"I probably should be more angry than I am," he said.

"No you shouldn't. We both did it because we care about you."

"So what's this letter all about?"

"I have no idea." She looked at it, somewhat fretfully. "Should I open it?"

"That's the general idea with letters."

"You want me to read it out loud?"

"Please."

She opened the letter: Three pages, in longhand. She began to read:

_Dear Lisa, _

_By the time you read this, I will already be dead. (I've always wanted to write that line.)_

_I'm sorry to send this letter to you, and not to Greg. I asked Joan to send it once I had died—I told her you were one of the doctors who treated me in the medical trial I invented as an alibi for meeting my son. Having her send it to him directly seemed a bit risky. _

_I want you to read something to him—yes, out loud and in person. It is my sincerest hope that you won't have to move far to do this and that he sought comfort in you after my death and that you accepted him into your heart and home and that, perhaps, he is sitting at your kitchen table right now, drinking coffee._

She stopped reading and they gaped at each other. "Holy shit," Cuddy said. House hummed _The Twilight Zone_ theme. Cuddy went back to reading:

_This is the message I want you to give my son. That I love him. I know that seems crazy, as spent a mere 7 hours in each other's company, but it is, unequivocally, undeniably true. In some ways, I feel as connected to him as I do to the children I raised—maybe even more so because he is the product of my union with my beloved Blythe. Yes, I regret not having been in his life for 51 years, but I don't regret going to see him, reaching out to him, and our all-too-fleeting time together. In this life, you must cling to all opportunities for true love, as it is a rare and wonderful thing._

_Does it sound like I'm transitioning to your relationship with Greg? That's because I am. Sneaky, huh? I'm not trying to give you some sort of guilt trip from beyond the grave, nor am I merely advocating on my son's behalf, but I do wish you'd reconsider your relationship with him. I've seen how much you two love each other up close. And I see how remarkable you both are. It seems to me that two brilliant, beautiful people who love each other are something worth fighting for. Something worth treasuring. And yes, you can consider that the wisdom of an old man who has seen a lot and knows what he's talking about._

_Regardless, whether it's from the next pillow or one hospital floor away, I hope you look out for him. And that he looks out for you. Life is short, it's important that we all try to be good to each other. (But don't tell Greg I said that, because he hates that kind of corny bullshit.)_

_My warmest regards._

_Clifford _

Cuddy looked over to House. He had his head in his hands and his shoulders were shaking a bit. She couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying. When he looked up, he was smiling, but his eyes were moist.

On instinct, she reached over and hugged him. They held on for a long time.

"He was a pretty incredible man," Cuddy said.

"Yeah," House agreed.

"And so are you," Cuddy said.

House rubbed his eyes, as if awakening for a dream.

"What time is it?" he said.

"About 11 o clock," she said.

"Crap. Don't you need to be at work?"

"I'm going to take the day off, if that's okay with you," she said.

"Do you need me to clear out of here?"

"No silly! I'm taking the day off to _be_ with you. I just feel like. . .cocooning. We can sit on the couch and watch movies and play video games and. . .other things."

"_Other_ things?"

She grinned sexily. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

"Cuddy, what does this mean?"

"It means. . ." She positioned herself carefully on his lap and kissed him gently on the lips. "That I agree with your father. I think we're worth fighting for."

THE END


End file.
